


am i guilty, boy, you decide

by mondaycore



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 06:11:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21131969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/pseuds/mondaycore
Summary: The minute Daniel steps foot into Charles’ apartment, he knows the kid is up to no good. Sure, he’s wide-eyed and innocent,oh it couldn’t have beenme,sir,but it’s the way he smiles, all catty-cornered, like he’d just got done picking canary feathers out of his teeth — that’s the tell.





	am i guilty, boy, you decide

**Author's Note:**

> did y’all think i was done with these two? well, i’m NOT. i’m just gonna keep writing mindlessly self-indulgent things, and y’all are going to have to suffer me.
> 
> anyway! there’s drugs here. the wacky tabacky. the jazz cabbage. the devil’s lettuce. there’s also sex. title from ‘contact high’ by architecture in helsinki.

The minute Daniel steps foot into Charles’ apartment, he knows the kid is up to no good. Sure, he’s wide-eyed and innocent, _ oh, it couldn’t have been _ me_, sir, _ but it’s the way he smiles, all catty-cornered, like he’d just got done picking canary feathers out of his teeth — that’s the tell.

“Do I need to call a lawyer?” Daniel asks.

He’s joking, but not really. He fully knows what kind of hell Charles is capable of raising. It’s just astounding how much one can get away with, both on and off the track, by being young and beautiful and somewhat tragic (and clad in that saintly red mantle bearing _il Tricolore_, that also helps).

Charles nudges aside from where he’s hunched over the coffee table. On the polished glass tabletop in front of him is a cheap plastic lighter, a tab of rolling papers, a grinder, and a dime bag of, yep, yeah, uh-huh, that’s weed.

“Charles, why do you have that,” Daniel hisses and feels, for an unsettling moment, like Charles' _dad _ or something — not mad, just disappointed, and it's _definitely _ not appropriate given the way something sticky-hot blossoms in his stomach as Charles looks up at him from where he’s knelt on the ground and smiles that little bit sharper.

“Birthday present.”

“From?”

“Kimi.”

“What — ” Daniel says, then stops and thinks about it for a second, and decides, one, that’s the only explanation that makes sense and two, that it furthermore answers like, every lingering question he’s ever had in his eight years on the grid. He sighs. He’s the pot (ha) about to call the kettle black, but _ someone’s _ got to be the adult in this situation. It’s just a little disconcerting, because he’s usually not the one in this position. “You know you’re not supposed to have that.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Hey, that’s my line,” Daniel says, and then officially loses the battle by saying, “do you even know how to roll that?” 

“Yes, of course,” Charles says, then qualifies it with, “how hard could it be?”

Which means it’s no surprise when Charles proceeds to do the worst job rolling a blunt the world has _ ever _ witnessed, the whole time wearing a perplexed look usually reserved for people trying to build IKEA furniture without the instructions manual. It makes Daniel’s L.A. expat heart hurt more than just a little.

“Charles. Jesus Christ, man. _ Charles. _ You can't just — you have to _use the grinder _ — give me that,” Daniel says, shoving him aside and sitting down on the couch. “Watch and learn, young grasshopper."

He doesn’t have to show off the way he does, given that the bar has been set so low it’s a tripping hazard — but he’s a goddamn high jumper, okay, it’s who he _ is_. He takes the weed and grinds it up, taps it out with a flourish, even rips a little slip of cardstock from the cover of the rolling papers packet for a filter, ‘cause they’re in Monaco right now, and here in Monaco, they’re fancy as fuck.

“That’s how we do in _Los Angeles__,_” he says, obnoxiously over-pronouncing it, just to be a dick. He holds it up in front of Charles’ face. “Now lick it, baby.” 

And — whoo boy, _ big _lapse of judgement there as Charles so very obediently leans forward and pokes his tongue out and licks a stripe across the paper, his gaze flicking up to meet Daniel’s eyes from between his legs as he settles back. Daniel bites back an undignified noise and finishes wrapping the joint, putting a twist on the end, his fingers shaking just a little.

“Weed,” Daniel says. This is why the press love him. Because he's so very eloquent.

“Cool,” Charles says. He grabs the joint from Daniel and licks his lips in anticipation, a pink flash of tongue, a sharp sliver of teeth, and puts it gently in his mouth. Daniel lights it for him and, despite himself, grins widely. He’s gathered the data and plotted the points, he can extrapolate what’s about to happen next.

His careful analysis of the situation is vindicated when Charles takes a hit, exhales it all out in surprise, and collapses into a violent fit of coughing. Daniel feels mean for laughing, but he can’t help the delight in seeing Charles caught out for once, and makes up for it by leaning down and patting Charles comfortingly on the back as he chokes and sputters.

“_Putain_, that burns,” Charles says, once he’s wrested back control of his respiratory system. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “_Merde._”

“First time?” Daniel taunts.

Charles vehemently flips him off. He’s mad-dog determined, though — Daniel supposes it’s how he’s gotten this far in life, this young — and grabs at the lighter to try again. He flicks the spark wheel and drops it, swearing, as he scorches his finger on the flame.

“God, you are terrible at this,” Daniel says, then immediately regrets riling him up as Charles snarls in the back of his throat and puts his finger in his mouth to soothe it, still looking up at him, pissed now. 

“Oh yeah? Then show me how to do it,” he says. Daniel swallows hard. There’s a bratty, petulant, demanding look in Charles’ eyes that says _ I always get what I want_. It should be puerile and infuriating. It really shouldn’t make Daniel want to do the things he wants to do to Charles.

He plucks the joint from Charles' fingers, lights it, and takes a slow careful drag. It's actually high-quality stuff, strong as shit, and the part of Daniel's brain that usually only pipes up after the car's already a smoldering wreck in the tire barrier gives him unprecedented advanced warning this time, like, _hey, maybe you shouldn't do this, especially not with him._ But Charles is tracking his every motion, hawklike, his gaze flitting to his hands, his mouth, his eyes, and the sheer unwavering intensity of his attention is a drug in itself — it makes Daniel jittery as hell, makes him want to like, do something, do something bad —

He leans down, puts his mouth on Charles’ mouth, and _ blows_.

It’s surprise more than anything else that has Charles drawing breath in as Daniel breathes the smoke out, but he’s a quick study in this as he is in all things, angles his head just a bit and slots in perfectly, inhaling deeply, smooth and steady. When Daniel’s done, he pulls back, his heart hammering in his chest.

Charles falls still for a second, eyes closed, then slowly looks up at Daniel, expression unreadable. Daniel’s heart skips a beat.

He fucked up, he thinks, shit, shit, shit, he _ fucked up — _

“It’s a little smoother that way, yeah?” he says, shakily, trying the best he can to salvage the situation, but it’s like rearranging the deck chairs on a sinking ship at this point, isn’t it, and he’s about to drop everything and flee the crime scene right as Charles grabs him by the collar of his shirt and hauls him down again.

And Charles, he kisses just like he races, hard and dirty and like he’s got something to prove, licking into Daniel’s mouth all filthy-sweet and drawing back with a _ fuck you _bite to Daniel’s lip to punctuate his point.

“Again,” he demands.

“Are you sure you — ”

“_Go again. _”

So he tokes up and goes again, inhale, exhale, lips pressed against lips, a hand sliding around the back of Charles’ head, then lower, around the back of his neck, holding him close and steady. Charles makes a little sound and chases his mouth as Daniel pulls away.

“Go again,” Charles breathes, arching into his touch. Daniel gets the feeling that they should maybe slow down a little, because weed has a nasty habit of sneaking up on a person and sucker-punching their lights out, but nah, _ fuck it_, because Charles is knelt there in front of him, breathless and pliant, looking at him like he’s _ ravenous _ for it, for him — and he's not a good enough person to be able to resist something like that, God forgive him.

So he goes again, and goes again, and then Charles clambers into his lap and then he goes again, the haziness of a weed high prickling at the back of his skull. Time stretches and pulls, taffy-thick, looping and twisting. Daniel’s world narrows down to nothing but the bitter, acrid taste of smoke and the slick, hot slide of Charles’ mouth against his. At some point he registers Charles biting at his jaw, his neck, unbuttoning his shirt and mouthing at his chest. At some other, later point he registers Charles sliding down his body, licking at his belly, fumbling with his pants, nudging his legs apart, then — 

“Oh _ Christ_,” Daniel says, as Charles starts sucking him off, dumb-sloppy, unable to coordinate himself enough to build a steady rhythm. But no matter, it’s pure fucking hedonism, some ninth-circle, eternal damnation shit, his body heavy and loose and no longer his, reality draped pleasantly over him like a weighted blanket, the long sweet slow crests of start-stop pleasure coiling in his belly, Charles’ clever, clever tongue and his pretty, sneering mouth. It could be five minutes, it could be five hours that he sits there, hovering out of his own body, watching himself over his own shoulder, his head thrown back, a dark head of hair bobbing between his splayed legs — but finally he reaches the point where he has to let go, and as if moving through syrup, he picks his hand up and urgently pushes at Charles’ shoulder.

Charles, dazed and stupid on his high, pulls back and Daniel reaches down between his legs and finishes all over Charles’ face. Charles closes his eyes and smiles then, revelatory, like he's untangled a cosmic cat's cradle string, and pokes a tentative tongue out and licks at the mess Daniel’s left striped across his pale skin. _God_. It’s almost enough to make Daniel _ go again_.

He takes a moment to collect himself and resolutely decides: he’ll blame it on the weed, the way his breath comes short and his head spins when he looks down and sees Charles tracing shaky, entranced fingers around and around the lines of the tattoos on his legs, stopping only every now and then to muffle bouts of uncontrollable laughter against his thigh. He’s so openly happy in a way Daniel’s never seen him before, burdened so heavily as he is for someone so young, a kid who never had the time to grow up and do dumb things and get inadvisably high like this, just for the fun of it. It kills him, knowing that tomorrow Charles will go back out with that hard, brittle glint in his eyes, like if he doesn’t win it all, he’ll come apart entirely. And it _kills_ him knowing Charles would rather cut his own hand off than come to him for help even though Daniel knows that the recklessness with which Charles rockets that scrap of carbon fiber around the track is just a high of a different kind he chases to smother something very broken in him.

But it’s okay, it’s okay, Daniel thinks. It’s just the drugs talking, this little sliver of plausible deniability between his fingers, he figures — he has to find the lighter, has to take another drag, because if he does that, then, well, everything will be all okay, for now.

**Author's Note:**

> shotgunning is actually inefficient and a waste of weed. NOT that i’d know, officer, i’ve never seen a marijuana in my life.
> 
> the usual: this is a work of fiction. please don’t get the real world and real people mentioned herein involved, and please don’t link this fic out to any other platforms without asking first, thank you! as always, i’m very grateful to you, dear reader, and i hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
